which attachment will he use

Kilroy Was Here!

He’s engraved in stone in the National World War II Memorial in Washington, DC – back in a small alcove where very few people have seen it. For the WWII generation, this will bring back memories. For younger folks, it’s a bit of trivia that is an intrinsic part of American history and legend.

Anyone born between 1913 to about 1950, is very familiar with Kilroy. No one knew why he was so well known….but everybody seemed to get into it. It was the fad of its time!

          At the National World War II Memorial in Washington, DC

So who was Kilroy?

In 1946 the American Transit Association, through its radio program, “Speak to America,” sponsored a nationwide contest to find the real Kilroy….now a larger-than-life legend of just-ended World War II….offering a prize of a real trolley car to the person who could prove himself to be the genuine article.

Almost 40 men stepped forward to make that claim, but only James Kilroy from Halifax, Massachusetts, had credible and verifiable evidence of his identity.

“Kilroy” was a 46-year old shipyard worker during World War II (1941-1945) who worked as a quality assurance checker at the Fore River Shipyard in Quincy, Massachusetts (a major shipbuilder for the United States Navy for a century until the 1980s).  

His job was to go around and check on the number of rivets completed. (Rivets held ships together before the advent of modern welding techniques.) Riveters were on piece work wages….so they got paid by the rivet. He would count a block of rivets and put a check mark in semi-waxed lumber chalk (similar to crayon), so the rivets wouldn’t be counted more than once.

                                     A warship hull with rivets

When Kilroy went off duty, the riveters would surreptitiously erase the mark. Later, an off-shift inspector would come through and count the rivets a second time, resulting in double pay for the riveters!

One day Kilroy’s boss called him into his office. The foreman was upset about unusually high wages being “earned” by riveters, and asked him to investigate. It was then he realized what had been going on. 

The tight spaces he had to crawl in to check the rivets didn’t lend themselves to lugging around a paint can and brush, so Kilroy decided to stick with the waxy chalk. He continued to put his check mark on each job he inspected, but added KILROY WAS HERE! in king-sized letters next to the check….and eventually added the sketch of the guy with the long nose peering over the fence….and that became part of the Kilroy message.

   Kilroy’s original shipyard inspection “trademark” during World War II

Once he did that, the riveters stopped trying to wipe away his marks.

Ordinarily the rivets and chalk marks would have been covered up with paint. With World War II on in full swing, however, ships were leaving the Quincy Yard so fast that there wasn’t time to paint them. As a result, Kilroy’s inspection "trademark” was seen by thousands of servicemen who boarded the troopships the yard produced.

His message apparently rang a bell with the servicemen, because they picked it up and spread it all over the European and the Pacific war zones.

Before war’s end, “Kilroy” had been here, there, and everywhere on the long hauls to Berlin and Tokyo. 

To the troops outbound in those ships, however, he was a complete mystery; all they knew for sure was that someone named Kilroy had “been there first.” As a joke, U.S. servicemen began placing the graffiti wherever they landed, claiming it was already there when they arrived.

As World War II wore on, the legend grew. Underwater demolition teams routinely sneaked ashore on Japanese-held islands in the Pacific to map the terrain for coming invasions by U.S. troops (and thus, presumably, were the first GI’s there). On one occasion, however, they reported seeing enemy troops painting over the Kilroy logo!

Kilroy became the U.S. super-GI who had always “already been” wherever GIs went. It became a challenge to place the logo in the most unlikely places imaginable. (It is said to now be atop Mt. Everest, the Statue of Liberty, the underside of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, and even scrawled in the dust on the moon by the American astronauts who walked there between 1969 and 1972.

In 1945, as World War II was ending, an outhouse was built for the exclusive use of Allied leaders Harry Truman, Joseph Stalin, and Winston Churchill at the Potsdam Conference. It’s first occupant was Stalin, who emerged and asked his aide (in Russian), “Who is Kilroy?”

To help prove his authenticity in 1946, James Kilroy brought along officials from the shipyard and some of the riveters. He won the trolley car….which he attached to the Kilroy home and used to provide living quarters for six of the family’s nine children….thereby solving what had become an acute housing crisis for the Kilroys.

                     The new addition to the Kilroy family home.

                                        *          *          *          *

And the tradition continues into the 21st century…

In 2011 outside the now-late-Osama Bin Laden’s hideaway house in Abbottabad, Pakistan….shortly after the al-Qaida-terrorist was killed by U.S. Navy SEALs

>>Note: The Kilroy graffiti on the southwest wall of the Bin Laden compound pictured above was real (not digitally altered with Microsoft Paint, as postulated by some). The entire compound was leveled in 2012 for redevelopment by a Pakistani company as an amusement park….and to avoid it becoming a shrine to Bin Laden’s nefarious memory.

                                         *          *          *          *

A personal note….

My Dad’s trademark signature on cards, letters and notes to my sisters and I for the first 50 or so years of our lives (until we lost him to cancer) was to add the image of “Kilroy" at the end. We kids never ceased to get a thrill out of this….even as we evolved into adulthood. 

To this day, the “Kilroy” image brings back a vivid image of my awesome Dad into my head….and my heart!

Dad: This one’s for you!


Originally posted by whenimaunicorn

Originally posted by cindecasso

Ivar x Reader

Ivar glowered from the edge of the docks as you stood with Margrethe who was saying goodbye to Ubbe and Hvitserk. You hadn’t even given Ivar a passing look. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him, it never had before.

“Do not worry we will be back soon.” Ubbe mumbled to his wife as Hvitserk nodded to you and climbed onto the boat.

Ivar glanced up when Aslaug’s hand gently squeezed his shoulder. They stayed to watch the boat vanish from sight before Margrethe excused herself. “(Y/N), Margrethe has decided to take care of Sigurd and… I was wondering if you would be willing to do the same for Ivar?” Aslaug gave you a look that told you not to refuse despite all three of you knowing Ivar would refuse to be helped and that ‘looking after Sigurd’ was not as innocent as it could be perceived.

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There is absolutely no doubt that Baby Driver is an amazing movie, but my favorite part was actually the scene towards the end (sorry spoilers ahead) 

When Baby used his recorder, the one he was so attached to which he used to normalize all of the crazy situations in his life, and used it to record Joe’s message to the senior home. He promised he would take care of him, and nothing would happen to him, and even though he got hurt, he still helped until the very end. 

It was so refreshing to watch a movie where foster parents aren’t put in a bad light because there are so many shows, movies, etc, that show them to be abusive and not care for the child. But Joe and Baby were so pure and so understanding of each other

“Spread to the edges” will forever make me tear up

Dealing With the Monthlies

AN: I should be working on something else (an ongoing story, that essay I have to do if I want to go to college next year, etc.), but I’m writing this instead because I’m on a plane heading for Texas and my uterus is being an enormous bitch. Don’t have your period on an airplane, children, it’s absolutely horrible. Anyway, this is for my friend @tyranny-mutt, who has helped me improve my writing in many areas. And by ‘many’ I mean 'one’, but it was one that sorely needed improving. This is for you, dude.

Title: Dealing With the Monthlies

Summary: Kaiba and Yuugi aren’t dating. Really. They’re not. Yuugi’s only over there so often because Kaiba wants to Duel. They only slept together a couple times. Okay, maybe a lot more than, that but they aren’t a couple! Too bad Anzu isn’t buying it. (In which Yuugi suffers and Anzu forces Kaiba to be a better not-boyfriend)

Genre: Humor/Romance (for a… given definition of those words)

Characters: Kaiba Seto, Mutou Yuugi, Mazaki Anzu, Kaiba Mokuba Thief King Bakura

Pairings: Rivalshipping (Kaiba x Yuugi), implied Slateshipping (TKB x Anzu) (leave me alone I need this)

Warnings: Trans male character (Yuugi), not-straight people (everyone), a complete and total loser (Kaiba), and the Ultimate Mom Friend™ (Anzu)

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this week has been really weird and i get the feeling that something shady this way comes


1. Scout’s first name is Jeremy. That’s the cutest fucking name. Holy god.

2. Canonically, Spy is confirmed to be Scout’s dad, and despite their shitty in-game relationship, Spy’s admitted to being proud of his son. my feelings.

3. Medic is a huge dweeb that really hates Demo’s eye socket and brain.

4. Team Fortress Classic team members are assholes, especially TFC Heavy.

5. Scout gives hugs hard enough to send Miss Pauling’s sloshy blood shooting from her eyeballs.

6. Heavy does not approve of his sister’s relationship with Soldier. At all.

7. Scout still has a huge crush on Miss Pauling.

8. Saxton Hale got laid inside a whale.

9. Somehow Scout can read perfectly in prison and then cannot read a single word on the battlefield. 

10. Sniper has a nice ass. 

11. Sniper has a nice everything honestly.

12. Sniper.

13. Medic canonically has one natural soul and eight surgically attached souls, which he uses as bargaining chips to fool the Devil.

14. Pyro is still a little shit.

15. For some reason, Zhana and Soldier are content with fighting robots - naked and covered in honey. 

16. Apparently Sniper was aware of the fact that Spy is Scout’s dad? Are all of them? Or maybe it’s just Sniper.

17. Scout is now under the idea that instead, Tom Jones is his father. Can’t wait until he tries to bring that up with his mom.

19. Scout is still a virgin.


21. Zhana is convinced that Miss Pauling is interested in Soldier. Though that couldn’t even be further from the truth. 

22. The Devil got conned out of a pen.

23. Medic’s canon last name is Ludwig.

24. Medic has some weird thing for baboons…baboon hearts, inducing baboon pregnancy in men…

25. Helen is now bent on doing whatever the hell she needs the mercs to do and only has an hour of Australium-fueled life to do so. 

I love this game/universe.

anonymous asked:

What do you think Jon Snow would be like if had become more 'villanous'? Basically impacting the bastard stereotype.

Oooh, good question, and I really enjoy what ifs, so thanks for it!

Jon’s morally neutral characteristics are: he is pragmatic and methodical, violent and brave with keenly just and survivalist impulses, ie, a real vindictive streak, a northerner to the bone. He is almost an intuitive game theorist. When he’s not feeling self-conscious, he’s charismatic. He’s proud, with a lot of unevenly-suppressed ambition and resentment. With absolutely no relevant training or time to prepare, he proves to be an unnervingly successful double agent. With the character’s humanistic ethical center and his (somewhat codependent and therefore not entirely selfless) emotional attachments to others, these are traits which he uses to good ends. Without his more admirable motivations, though, they would be traits that make for an extremely effective villain.

To compare him to other characters in the series, he’s probably not the obvious Ramsay Snow style villainous bastard - I enjoy the literary connection between Jon and Ramsay, but Jon is smarter, saner, and more ambitious, which creates the potential for a very different kind of dangerousness. Even our Jon has a lot of parallels to Bloodraven, and that’s quite a dark road for anyone to walk. Then again, he could also become the implacably destructive Bittersteel type, not only martially-inclined but ruthlessly bloody-minded. He certainly has their force of personality and strength of will; perhaps he also has their capacity for darkness.

This has some really interesting potential repercussions for the story overall, which I know you didn’t ask about but I couldn’t resist, so I’ll put it under a cut. 

Keep reading

Chapter 1

(Feedback greatly appreciated)

Erase Myself: Chapter 1 || Ao3

The sun peeks through the crack of the aqua curtains, landing directly on the blond’s face. A long arm stretches out from underneath the flat pillow; smacking across his eyes. The red alarm clock numbers on the dark brown bedside table read 5:30. Beeps spew from beside him.

He groans, waving the hand that’s not sprawled on his face towards the device. When he finally hits the button to silence it, he’s already awake.  No point in trying to go back to sleep now. As he moves his arm, his eyelids peel open slowly, relieving his dark brown orbs. The light blue sheets pull back, exposing his bare chest and ruby boxers.

He swings the two long legs that are attached to him to the edge of the bed before bringing his upper body up. As he twists his chest, cracking it, he blinks rapidly; eyes trying to adjust to the new found light. Pulling himself up to stand, he wobbles slightly while walking to the oak dresser across the room, slamming both hands on it and rubbing his eye.

Lifting his head up, he stares at the mirror that’s attached to the dresser. Typical Tate. Blond curls askew, slight purple bags packed under his dark orbs that won’t go away; no matter how much sleep he got. With a sigh, he cards his fingers through his mane, taking out some of the knots that are hibernating in the curls. He looks in the mirror again; good enough. Long fingers grab drawer handles, yanking it towards him.

He allows the palms of his hands to trail over all the soft sweaters before pulling out a black and red one. It has black long sleeves and a red and black checkered torso. He slips into the cotton shirt, making sure it covers his stomach fully; unlike some of his clothes. Then he grabs the ripped jeans that are piled on the shaggy dark green rug, stepping into the pant legs and tugging them up his slender hips.

After he uses the bathroom (which is attached to his room), brushes his teeth, pees and washes face, he returns to his dresser, picking his skull thumb ring up and putting it on. His head whips toward the small clock. 5:53.

With a long sigh, he steps in his old beat up red converses, not bothering to tie them just yet. Dragging his feet, he opens the door to the hallway and shuffles out of his room. He rubs one of his eyes with the back of his hand as he leans on the wall, still walking. “Adds, time to get up kiddo.” He yawns, stepping into his sister’s room.

She’s still sleeping, of course. Her long brown hair falling all around her; her mouth framed with a sleepy pout. It pains Tate to have to wake her up. He tiptoes over to her orange bed, sitting carefully at the end. Hesitantly, he reaches his arm out, touching her shoulder gently. “Princess…come on, you gotta get up to go to school…” He whispers, shaking her softly.

She whines a little, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I don’t wanna.” She pouts, folding her arms.

Tate looks around the room dramatically with an exaggerated sigh. “That’s too bad. I was gonna make pancakes but now…” He trails off, staring at the wall to the side, smirking. In seconds she’s up, throwing off her blankets. “Hey, hey, easy now!” He laughs, standing to go to the closet. “Okay, it’s gonna be really cold today; so layers.” He mumbles mostly to himself, swiping the clothes on the hangers.

The smooth plum dress with sleeves catches his eye and he plucks it from the hanger.  Spinning on his heel, he holds the dress up; Addie nods in approval, grabbing the fabric from his grasp. He walks backwards out the door, mumbling a ‘be right back’. Rushing to the closet, he gets a pile of quilts and goes to the attic. “Beau, if you get cold there’s blankets out here, okay?!” He yells through the door, plopping the quilts next to the uneaten food. Not a sound.

Shoelaces flop around his feet while he hurries downstairs, humming Never Going Back Again by Fleetwood Mac softly. Addie comes out of her room; dressed but her hair is still messy. Biting his lip, he goes in the small bathroom, returning with the brush. He shoves it in his back pocket for the time being and his hand grips the tiny girl’s waist, picking her up and clutching her body to his chest. She giggles as he hops down the stairs.

When at the bottom, he places her on the floor, darting towards the kitchen. The brunette follows the tall boy, laughing hysterically; because to her, it’s a game. Tate chuckles too until he looks at the lime green clock numbers on the oven. 6:18. Shit. He claps his hands together, crouching to her level. “New plan, princess. Cereal now and pancakes for dinner?” He pleads, squinting one eye and frowning.

With a long sigh, the little girl nods, climbing into one of the dinner table chairs. Part of Tate wants to say 'fuck it’ and make pancakes, but he knows if he is late again, shit will happen. The tan cabinet door swings open and he yanks a light blue bowl out, setting it on the gray counter top.

“Tate, is mommy gonna be home for dinner tonight?” Addie asks as he pours the Cheerios in the bowl. He stops suddenly for a mere second before shaking his head, setting the cereal box down.

The bowl clinks in front of her. The blond goes to the fridge, going to get the milk. His hand wraps around the sleek black handle but he doesn’t open the door. Instead, he squints, reading the note that his mother must’ve left on the fridge. He sighs, finally grabbing the milk out. “No Adds…she went on a trip again. Looks like it’s you, me and Beau for a while.” He grumbles, pouring the milk in the bowl. It’s always this way, he’s not surprised.

Addie pouts, pushing around the cereal. “Always is…” She slowly puts the spoon in her mouth, watching her brother lean back against the counter with his leg raised to tie his shoe. “You’re not eating?” she sputters; almost too hard to understand.

“I’ll, uh, eat on the way to school.” He mutters, putting her tin Powerpuff Girls lunchbox in her backpack. Was that a lie? Yes. Tate never eats breakfast. Even though his stomach grumbles in every single class at least five times. The metal spoon bouncing off the bowl makes Tate focus back, and he finishes zipping the bag. “You done?” Addie nods, hopping from the chair, grabbing her bright yellow backpack as he places the bowl in the sink. “Ah, ah, ah, where do you think you’re going; get back here!” He laughs, peering over his shoulder. 6:34.

Sluggishly, the little girl goes toward her older brother; the lavender boots scuffing the wood floorboards. Plastic bristles meet the snarled long dark hair, removing the knots carefully. “Why doesn’t mommy do this?” She blinks a few times with every word; tongue coming out of her mouth.

For a moment, he debates in his head; sugar coat it or not? “Mom…isn’t a good parent all the time. That’s why.” he explains, tilting his head to the side. Kinda sugar coated it. Addie stares at him with a blank expression. “But, you have me. I’ll always take care of you and Beau, ‘kay?” He grins, showing his massive dimples; Addie nods in response. “Ready to wait for the bus?” He holds his hand out and she takes it, playing with the silver thumb ring as they walk to the front door; he swings it open.

When they exit the house, Tate’s grip tightens. He picks her up with one arm and runs down the stairs; making her giggle. They turn around, “Wave by to Nora!” He whispers, waving to the tall beautiful blonde ghost that appeared. Addie waves her small hand with a smile. Fixing his checkered sweater so it covers his torso fully, he twirls them back to the street just in time for the bright school bus to pull up. “Have a good day, princess.” He beams, ushering her up the steep steps.

All that he can see through dust covered windows is the top of his sisters purple headband until she sits down. Smiling, he waves his hand back and forth; the silver skull shining in the sun. The bus puffs out gas before driving ahead. Tate lets out a breath that’s been locked inside his chest, lifting his left leg high and spinning on his right, booking back in the giant house.

He taps his jeans quickly, squinting around. What does he need? The hanging house key catches his attention and he grabs it, shoving it in his front pocket. Messenger bag is next; the strap goes over his head, pushing his hair to one side. Of course. He removes his black trench coat from the closet, slinging it on his shoulders; not bothering to put his arms in the arm holes. “Shit.” He coughs, peeking at the time. 6:48. School started already.

Before leaving, he plugs his thick headphones into the charcoal mp3 player, blasting Territorial Pissings by Nirvana. The tan skateboard with band stickers leans against the corner and he grabs it, going outside, throwing it to the cracked sidewalk. After adjusting his headphones, he jumps on the board, pushing off; his trench coat flapping around him.

He leans to the right, bending a corner; his old brown messenger bag flying off his side. Cars drive past, not paying him any mind until he crosses the street; multiple car horns echo through his ears. A smirk creeps on his pale lips.

Up ahead, he sees the hell hole and sighs inwardly. Stepping his heel back on the lip, the skateboard flings to his knee. His pointer and ring finger hold the truck as he speed walks to the entrance. The skull clings on the long door handle; he pulls but it doesn’t budge. “Of. Fuckin’. Course.” He grits his teeth together, yanking the handle with more force and looking up at the sky. This can’t get worse.

The blond bites his lip, cupping a hand over his squinted eyes while he looks through the window. Everyone’s probably in first period already. Tate peers to the right side of the hallway to the left, spotting a teacher coming towards the door. Quickly, he backs up; the heavy metal door slamming open.

“Mr. Langdon! How nice of you to show up finally!” Mr. Clarck says condescendingly, pushing Tate inside and closing the door. It locks with a click. Tate spins to face the short, pudgy man, about to raise a finger. “Lunch detention. My office.”


Just appreciate Robert Sugden’s face. I couldnt get a clear screenshot because this boy is just all jumpy and excitably happy. He’s literally hopping all over the place in the christmas episode, such a puppy. Compared to the utter disgust as he looks over at Katie. The way he’s turned away from Chrissie and Lawrence the symbol of his fathers rejection and his internalized biphobia is just powerful. He’s holding on to the wine, the epitome of his wealthy lifestyle, to cling on to success but his body has moved away from it. Unlike the Christmas Snowball at Lisa’s which he mocks and then gets very attached to and uses as an excuse to stick around this family. His family, his home, his safe space, the Dingles.

A historical, ad verbatim list of criminal charges brought against my trash ancestor between 1884-1893

- being drunk in charge of a house and cart
- feloniously stealing a bag containing 2 bushels of soot
- being drunk and disorderly and refusing to quit the private premises of the Queen Inn
- furiously driving a horse in St Martin Street
- cruelly beating a cow with a stick
- being disorderly and refusing to quit the private premises of the Black Lion Inn
- failing to keep a lamp or lamps properly trimmed, lighted and attached to a cart which he was driving
- using indecent language within hearing of Paradise Buildings to the annoyance of passengers there
- wandering abroad and lodging in a shed in Newtown Road
- wandering abroad and lodging in a shed on Red Barn Farm
- wandering abroad and lodging in a barn at Canon Moor
- willfully damaging a quantity of hay in a rick at Canon Moor
- feloniously stealing a fur boa

Itsy Bitsies

“There are two types of badges that everyone wears.” The monotone voice on Jim’s phone filled the hallway outside the classroom in the elementary school. It was after hours, and the classroom was quiet: one would hardly guess that a dozen children and nearly as many adult chaperones were inside.

Jim plucked a lanyard from the dwindling pile on the desk by the door and pulled it over his head. Then he picked green rectangular badge out of one of the plastic bins. It, like all the others, was cut out from construction paper and then laminated, then attached to a small clip which he used to hang it from the lanyard. “This shape is for general interaction. Green for open to interacting with anyone, yellow for only if you know them, red for not unless it’s an emergency or they specifically told you that you could. Make sense?”